We travel looking for the embarrassment of the remoteness, a loss to reconcile us with our instincts, boredom numbed by devouring the hours and days. Feeling a stranger is finally, course, one of the most pleasurable feelings that any traveler can experience. From there, regroup and survive touches doubts, maintaining the difficult balance the intruder surrounded by a world unknown and hardly will come to understand. Are we but, while, are other, this alter ego that only looks far from home and do not want to know about mobile or clocks. The insatiable curiosity of childhood springs gushing now and got to know through the eyes of others, those who are watching in amazement or let our shadows slide over a cold look of disdain.
In the plaza of Asan Tole, in the commercial epicenter of the old Kathmandu, I felt that sudden and instantly pleasurable sensation desubica your routines and often anticipate a great trip. Nothing I saw was like nothing I had ever seen. In that small space converged eight blocks without sidewalks or traffic lights, it vortex chaos it seemed to everyone tragarnos. And in this case it is necessary to indicate which means all: a possessed bicycles to and from, motorcycles and cars that did not stop honking their horns pushing through the crowd, avoiding stalls that seemed drawn by Hergé. Forced no doubt.
Are we but, while, are other, this alter ego that only looks far from home and do not want to know about mobile or clocks
I stopped a few seconds enjoying the confusion that balance, a symphony tune in which one felt like a discordant note. Nobody seemed concerned. That phenomenal circulatory disorder observed by two temples, those Annapurna and Vishnu, and a pagoda, of Ganesh, was his routine. They had become accustomed to not flinch with shock.
I had put a long-sleeved shirt and had already completely soaked. In the winding streets of the commercial heart of Thamel, dirt obvious. The wastes build up in small mounds in which dogs sniff. Over a four-hour tour through the center of the capital of Nepal only saw a trash, in the Basantapur Square ("The streets are very narrow and there is no place to put them", I explained). The asphalt is twisted passers crack and spit her unceremoniously spitting. In a corner, a child sleeping crouched outside the bustle. Men and vehicles form a whole synchronized in this perfect symphony of noise in which, surprisingly, I feel happy.
In that small space converged eight blocks without sidewalks or traffic lights, it vortex chaos it seemed to everyone tragarnos
Goods of shops and street vendors accumulate in bags at street, with portals tiny rundown. It is impossible not to cross paths with some Nepalese, including children, carrying huge bundles on their backs, that balance holding them with a tape to your forehead. These learners Sisyphus are everywhere and it is miraculous that do not hit anyone as they tend to go with his eyes on the ground. Traders harass travelers with a certain resignation to defeat and, occasionally, some Sadhu (Hindu holy men) snuggles shoddy and calls for rupees to point out the tikka on the forehead, that third eye that sees beyond appearances. If I look straight no escape, incomprehensible verbiage because without compassion is unleashed.
Walking among the hubbub of people are so intense odors as sensations. It smells like dirt, but also to juniper and incense burning in the offerings, oil of the lamps of the temples where prayer wheels spread the thick air of Kathmandu the prayers of the faithful. Why go Thamel and Durbar Square 's venture into the recesses where, suddenly, emerges a temple in a courtyard, sheltered from the bustle pagoda, an altar worshiped by a boy or a Newari house nearly three centuries old, with its distinctive carved wooden balconies forced to switch to air cable amalgamation that fly over our heads.
Walking these streets is where the recesses venture, suddenly, emerges a temple in a courtyard, sheltered from the bustle pagoda or altar worshiped by a child
After leaving the hustle sublimation, walk through the pedestrian streets of Durbar Square, the most significant monuments of Kathmandu, is a truce that is good to collect the ashes of our routine, that has remained in the streets of Thamel, between the bundles of clothes and synchrony impossible men and vehicles, in that perfect balance of bewilderment that one always misses when he returns home.
